


Khan Job

by impactEvents



Series: Khan Job [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Gen, The Great Khans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 15:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12986793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impactEvents/pseuds/impactEvents
Summary: Courier Six is Tracy - an ex-Great Khan with too many sunglasses and not enough guns. This work collects drabbles about her initiation, early life, and life during the events of the game.





	Khan Job

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters may be out of order chronologically, but I will date them at the beginning of each.

Tracy tried not to look around at the faces staring at her. She failed, but she tried. She’d have to do more than that to manage in the ring, but after a decade of preparation, she was ready.

Her first real glimpse of Khan life had occurred one day she’d wandered too far from the camp, a mere child then, and watched from a tree as a caravan hustled down the road. She’d gulped, seeing the NCR logo and khaki-clad men and women, and gasped as adults in Khan vests and bandannas poured from the rocks and trees above the road, shooting and smashing the soldiers until the rest fled. When the last bloody body fell, she’d tumbled out of the branches, screaming and whooping with joy at the victory.  
Her mother had been there, armed with a shotgun and a wild smile, the latter only brightening as her daughter ran at her.  
“You’ll join me next time, right, little one?” Thistle joked, earning a series of head nods and “yes”s from Tracy. Her mother laughed, rough and sweet at once. “You’re going to make me proud, Tracy dear.”

And now, with a decade of preparation, both physical and emotional, behind her, she was ready.  
_I will make you proud, Mama._ Thistle had died in the journey from California to Red Rock Canyon, become another death on the NCR’s bill. Tracy had learned plenty from her in the little time they’d had, though – learned to grit her teeth, bear a blow; learned the perfect moment to strike back.  
She’d need to draw from every lesson to pass the rite.

Cheers erupted around the girl as she entered the ring. Khans of every age sat on rooftops and broken walls, silencing themselves as last year’s graduates filed in. Tracy met each’s eyes, feeling a skip in her heart and a lump in her throat as Angel entered. The older girl offered her a small nod in place of her usual wink.  
Tracy stepped forward, stood tall, and waited for the first punch. Khans fought rough and dirty; they held nothing back. After all, their enemies wouldn’t hold back, and if you couldn’t tolerate a beating, you couldn’t raid or run. You couldn’t be a Khan.  
Pain gave way to numbness as blow upon blow landed. The other teenagers surrounded her, swallowed her. She doubted anyone watching could even see past the bodies to her, but knew if she uttered a single sound, they’d hear, and she’d be out.  
A fresh pain grazed her back, sweeping across her skin, and it took til the pain hit her neck for her to process what it was. Not fists, not feet, but fire. Her oil-slicked leather vest burned against her bare skin, and she caught the enraged scream in her throat before it could escape, lest it be counted against her. She ripped the vest off, rounding on the boy who’d set it alight. Still burning, she tackled the boy, his Jet-reddened eyes widening as he, too, began to burn.  
Silently, she beat him as he screamed, the pair kicking up enough dirt to smother the flames. By the time her mind took over for instincts and training, the boy’s screams had been replaced by the crowd’s. Arms pulled her back; she grit her teeth as someone rubbed against her raw, burned skin. A needle jabbed into her shoulder, and someone threw a blanket over her bare shoulders.  
Across the arena, the boy sat alone, one miserable stimpack jabbed into his elbow. He’d broken the rules with that lighter, dishonored the initiation and himself. She looked away, towards the other young Khans. Some smiled, some congratulated her. Angel winked, and a different kind of heat rose in Tracy’s face as the group lifted her up, showing the new Khan to the crowd.  
Her heart still pounded, and her flesh still ached, but it was done. Finally, she cupped her hands around her mouth and screamed. She was a Khan.

Tracy peered at her reflection, twisted to look at the raw red flesh that contrasted so with her deep brown skin. The edges of the scar had healed, mostly, with the help of a couple stimpacks, but the bulk of it was still very much sore, and the scar would cover most of her back, shoulder, and neck. Images of other gangs bolting at the sight of her, decked out in battle scars, flashed through her mind. A childhood fantasy, soon come to pass. She grinned at that, and gingerly ran her fingers up her jaw, testing how much pain she could get away with – as if the morning’s trial hadn’t been enough.  
“You going ghoul on me, babe?”  
The girl hurt herself in her rush to turn, accidentally pulling at the raw skin the wrong way. Angel stood at the motel room’s doorway. Tracy yelped in joy and collided with her girlfriend, wincing as their shoulders bumped. She settled for a swift kiss, strands of Angel’s white blonde catching between their lips, before backing up. She turned in a circle, showing off her marks. Angel took a moment to clap, before shaking her head.  
“I can’t believe Troy did that!”  
Tracy shrugged, trying to appear cool, as if it were all over and forgiven. Which it was, mostly. She’d gotten her punches in, and maybe some more, later. “It’s whatever.”  
“It’s not,” Angel said, shaking her head. Tracy fought the urge to brush down the strands lifting with static. “Papa’s real pissed, Trace. He’s talking how he might kick him out for a while.”  
The shorter girl’s eyes widened. “Shit.” The Vegas ruins were safe enough, but outside, Fiends and irradiated wildlife ruled the world. The boy had enough problems without getting sucked into the world of careless, drug-addled gangs, or without getting dead.  
“Shit,” Angel concurred. “Could you come talk Papa down? You’re the wronged one; if you ask him to not, he’ll not.”  
Tracy leaned against the wall on her good shoulder, considering. In the end, it wasn’t the idea of doing good by another Khan, but the reality of Angel’s pleading look that caused her to give in. She had odd ideas about family and loyalty – very odd, by most Khan’s standards, despite the fact that Papa himself believed heavily in similar values. But hers were softer, kinder, and the longer Tracy looked at her, the more she found herself willing to believe in them.


End file.
